🔗 Share this article

It stands as the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as 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 verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon 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 thriving starry career on screen, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply