🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal 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 his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply