🔗 Share this article

It stands as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child 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 direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply