🔗 Share this article

It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film 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 something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply