🔗 Share this article

It stands as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply