🔗 Share this article

It stands as the most iconic introduction in film history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply