🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the most iconic entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply