Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Insights: An Icon with a Temper

It stands as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply