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

It stands as the greatest appearance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply