🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the most iconic entrance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply