🔗 Share this article

It stands as the greatest appearance in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply