🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply