Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Analysis: An Icon with a Temper
Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands completely still.
The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.
Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and drinking.
A young Hopkins at three years old on Aberavon beach.
The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”
The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.
Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.
In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?
He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play 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
