🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining 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 famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward 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 Oscar.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply