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

Many consider it the most iconic appearance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply