🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. 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 by his son's international fame: on asking 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.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated 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 do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply