We Did OK, Kid: A Memoir by Anthony Hopkins – Review: An Icon with a Temper

Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play 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