🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply