🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, 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 plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply