🔗 Share this article

It stands as the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates 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 would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal 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 next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply