🔗 Share this article

It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply