Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Analysis: A Legend with a Temper

Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes 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, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged 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 thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply