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

Many consider it the most memorable introduction in film history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon 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 luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply