Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Analysis: A Legend with a Temper

It stands as the greatest introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply