🔗 Share this article

It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! 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 but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply