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

Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked 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 child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply