We Did OK, Kid: A Memoir by Anthony Hopkins – Insights: A Legend with a Temper

Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. 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 seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply