🔗 Share this article

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

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, 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 strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way 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 classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply