🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield 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, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply