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

Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon 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 in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. 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!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply