We Did OK, Kid: A Memoir by Anthony Hopkins – Analysis: An Icon Known for His Fiery Nature

Many consider it the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply