🔗 Share this article

It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply