Exploring Anthony Hopkins' Autobiography We Did OK, Kid – Insights: A Legend with a Temper

Many consider it the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply