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

Many consider it the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! 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 had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply