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

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

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply