Exploring Anthony Hopkins' Autobiography We Did OK, Kid – Analysis: A Legend Known for His Fiery Nature

It stands as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply