We Did OK, Kid: A Memoir by Anthony Hopkins – Insights: An Icon with a Temper

It stands as the greatest entrance in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply