We Did OK, Kid: A Memoir by Anthony Hopkins – Analysis: A Legend with a Temper
Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.
The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.
He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and drinking.
Anthony Hopkins as a toddler on the beach in 1941.
The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”
The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.
As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.
In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?
He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “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 an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”
He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply
