🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply