🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply