We Did OK, Kid: A Memoir by Anthony Hopkins – Insights: A Legend with a Temper

Many consider it the most iconic entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply