Exploring Anthony Hopkins' Autobiography We Did OK, Kid – Review: An Icon Known for His Fiery Nature

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

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: 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, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student 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 his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply