🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the greatest appearance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply