🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the most iconic introduction in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber 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!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply