🔗 Share this article

It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply