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

It stands as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply