We Did OK, Kid: A Memoir by Anthony Hopkins – Analysis: An Icon with a Temper
Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.
The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.
He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and drinking.
A young Hopkins at three years old on Aberavon beach.
The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”
The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.
Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.
In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?
He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”
Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply
