Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Analysis: An Icon with a Temper
Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in film history – and he remains completely still.
Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.
Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.
A young Hopkins at three years old on Aberavon beach.
The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”
The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.
As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.
In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?
He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”
He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply
