Exploring Anthony Hopkins' Autobiography We Did OK, Kid – Review: An Icon Known for His Fiery Nature

Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply