🔗 Share this article

It stands as the greatest appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, 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 largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply