Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Review: An Icon with a Temper

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

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “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 possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply