Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Analysis: An Icon with a Temper

Many consider it the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. 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 steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply