We Did OK, Kid: A Memoir by Anthony Hopkins – Analysis: A Legend with a Temper
It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.
Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.
He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.
Anthony Hopkins as a toddler on the beach in 1941.
The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”
The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.
As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.
During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?
He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”
He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply
