Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Review: An Icon Known for His Fiery Nature

Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character 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 successful acting career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply