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

Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

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 wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply