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

Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son 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 quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply