🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the most iconic entrance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father 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 Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply