🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply