We Did OK, Kid: A Memoir by Anthony Hopkins – Review: An Icon Known for His Fiery Nature

Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. 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 – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply