Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Insights: An Icon with a Temper

Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! 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 during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply