🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply