🔗 Share this article

It stands as the greatest appearance in film history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply