We Did OK, Kid: A Memoir by Anthony Hopkins – Review: A Legend with a Temper

Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! 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 an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply