🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply