Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Analysis: A Legend with a Temper

Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to affluent family members including Auntie 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 humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply