Exploring Anthony Hopkins' Autobiography We Did OK, Kid – Insights: A Legend Known for His Fiery Nature

Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply