🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, 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 scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes 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 facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply