🔗 Share this article

It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director 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! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply