Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Review: An Icon Known for His Fiery Nature

Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

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. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way 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 speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply