🔗 Share this article We Did OK, Kid: A Memoir by Anthony Hopkins – Insights: A Legend Known for His Fiery Nature Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless. Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence. He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin 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 to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use. Anthony Hopkins as a toddler on the beach in 1941. The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!” The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly. Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win. In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly? He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!” Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply