🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply