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

It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name 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 develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply