Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Analysis: An Icon with a Temper

Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, 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 father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, including 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.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply