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

It stands as the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another 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 displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply