🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply