🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply