🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences 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 boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply