🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “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. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks 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 confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply