Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Analysis: An Icon with a Temper

Many consider it the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role 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 on screen, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from 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