🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply