🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor 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 Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply