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

Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, 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 plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply