🔗 Share this article

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

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “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. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply