Exploring Anthony Hopkins' Autobiography We Did OK, Kid – Insights: An Icon with a Temper

Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived 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, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply