Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Review: A Legend with a Temper

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

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age 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 Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply