🔗 Share this article

It stands as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply