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

It stands as the most memorable introduction in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply