🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt 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 baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply