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

Many consider it the most iconic introduction in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention 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 – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply