🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention 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 – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names 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 acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply