Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Review: A Legend Known for His Fiery Nature

It stands as the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious 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 voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply