🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the greatest entrance in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes 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! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply