We Did OK, Kid: A Memoir by Anthony Hopkins – Insights: A Legend Known for His Fiery Nature

Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply