🔗 Share this article

It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply