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

Many consider it the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply