In many of Anthony Hopkins’s most iconic roles, he masterfully portrays characters with intriguing hidden depths. The tension between what they know, what the audience perceives, and what they choose to reveal is where his artistic brilliance shines. This holds true whether he’s embodying a cunning antagonist in his Hannibal Lecter films or a shy butler in the poignant “The Remains of the Day,” one of his most beloved works. These characters are often grappling with thoughts and emotions they keep closely guarded.
However, this reserved nature no longer defines Hopkins himself. In his forthcoming memoir, “We Did OK, Kid,” set for publication on November 4, the 87-year-old actor openly shares candid details about his challenging school years in Wales, his remarkable triumph over alcoholism, the difficult estrangement from his only daughter, and his gradual ascent to acclaimed Hollywood success.
Beyond a simple chronology of events, the memoir portrays a thoughtful and private individual who has delved into life’s profound questions – exploring the ‘why’ and the ‘what it all means.’ Even at his advanced age, Hopkins expresses a beautiful sense of wonder regarding the sheer serendipity and unlikeliness of what he refers to as ‘the dream called Life.’
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We all have turning points in our lives, but yours seems incredibly specific—a moment that changed everything. Could you share what happened on December 29, 1975, at 11 o’clock? I’m always a bit hesitant to discuss it, as I don’t want to sound like I’m preaching. But I was intoxicated, driving my car in California in a blackout, completely lost. It was then that I realized I could have harmed someone—or myself, which I didn’t care about at the time—and I recognized that I was an alcoholic. I regained my clarity and, at a Beverly Hills party, told an ex-agent, “I need help.” It was precisely 11 o’clock; I remember checking my watch. And here’s the uncanny part: a deep, powerful thought or voice spoke to me from within, saying: “It’s all over. Now you can start living. And it has all been for a purpose, so don’t forget one moment of it.”
Was it a sudden, unexpected voice? It came from deep within me. But it was distinct, a male voice, calm and rational, like a radio announcer. The urge to drink was simply lifted from me, or it departed. I have no theories about it, other than attributing it to divinity, or that inherent power within us all—the life force that creates us from birth. Whatever it is, I believe it’s a form of consciousness. That’s all I understand. Would you like to hear another profound moment?
Yes, please. It was Easter, 1955. My school report had arrived—that dreaded document. I was 17 and filled with dread, knowing my parents would read those terrible remarks. I was always considered a “dummy,” known as Dennis the Dunce, unable to grasp anything, feeling resentful and lonely. I recall my father opening the report around five in the evening. It was a beautiful spring day, and we were planning to see a film. He read the report, which stated, “Anthony is far below the school’s standard”—a real death knell. My father looked at me and said, “I don’t know what will become of you.” He was understandably concerned, having invested in my education, and I wasn’t living up to expectations. But I remember stepping back slightly and declaring, “One day I’ll show you.” My father simply replied, “Well, I hope you do.” In that instant, I decided to stop playing the role of being stupid. We often fall into negative patterns, playing a role because it’s easier to say, “This isn’t for me.” There’s some truth in that, but at the same time, you must tell yourself: “Wake up and live! Act as if it is impossible to fail.” And that’s precisely what I did.
You won! I won.
When you were a kid and would hear your father or teachers say you were a dummy, I’m sure that then the voice in your own head said, “I’m a dummy.” That’s right.
I think a lot of people do battle with the voice in our head that tells us we can’t do things or we’re stupid or whatever it may be. How did you quiet that voice? Well, it’s still there in me from childhood. But now it whispers. I say, “Shut up.” So yeah, we all have problems. We’ve all got limitations. But I do believe that if you say, “Wake up and live. Act as if it is impossible to fail,” we actually tap into a power that’s in ourselves which helps us to do, well, not everything, but some things. I discovered that I could compose music! I discovered that I could write! I discovered through my lovely wife, Stella, that I could paint!
Often when I’ve talked with actors, they’ve suggested that something about acting fulfills something inside them. Do you find acting fulfills some inner need? A “need” would sound rather sad. I just enjoy it. I enjoy the scientific fun of learning a script and I’m very good at that. I learn everything there is about the text that I’m studying, because that reforms something in me. And I suppose on a deep psychological level I’m trying to escape from what I was.
What were you trying to escape from? Well, that lonely kid. I survived my loneliness. I survived those bullies. Not that I blame them, God bless them all, even the teachers who beat me about. I’m not a victim. If people choose to wallow, OK, go ahead, but you’re going to die. And that’s why I drank. To nullify that discomfort or whatever it was in me, because it made me feel big. You know, booze is terrific because it makes you instantly feel in a different space. Actors in those days — Peter O’Toole, Richard Burton, all of them — I remember those drinking sessions, thinking: This is the life. We’re rebels, we’re outsiders, we can celebrate. And at the back of the mind is: It’ll kill you as well. Those guys I worked with have all gone.
You write about how you were influenced by older actors like Laurence Olivier or Katharine Hepburn, but I was curious about whether any of the younger actors that you’ve worked with over the years, people like Nicole Kidman or Brad Pitt or Ryan Gosling, taught you anything about acting? I mean, Brad and everyone you’ve just mentioned, nothing but praise for them. I was working with a young actor a few years ago, a young Canadian actor who looked a bit like James Dean. I think he thought he was James Dean. We were doing a scene together and I said: “I can’t hear a word you’re saying. Why are you mumbling?” I didn’t want to spoil his day, but I said: “If you do that, they will go to the pub next door, because you’re supposed to tell us the story. Speak up. Be clear. Wandering on like a backstreet Marlon Brando is not going to help you at all in your career.” Never heard of him since.
In the book and in older interviews with you, there’s a consistent sense that acting shouldn’t be taken that seriously. Does acting have any greater claim on the “truth”? No. It’s entertainment.
Would you call any of the films you’ve made important? No.
Not one? No.
“The Elephant Man”? Give me “The Elephant Man”! Yeah, it’s a good film.
“The Remains of the Day”? “The Silence of the Lambs”? Yeah, they were good, but people asked me, “How did you play the butler in ‘Remains of the Day’?” I said, “Well, I was very quiet, very still, and walked about quietly.”
That’s it? “How did you play Hannibal Lecter?” Well, I played the opposite of what they promised. Oh, he’s a monster? [Hopkins does his Hannibal Lecter voice] “Good morning. You’re not real F.B.I., are you?” You play the opposite. It’s easy.
I’d like to return to the material from the book, and the specific material I’d like to focus on — I know it’s sensitive for you. I know what you’re going to talk about: my domestic life.
Yes. No.
Even though it’s in the book? No. It’s done.
Can I ask a general question? Part of the reason I found the material in the book about your estranged relationship with your daughter so painful is that it resonated with me for personal reasons. I’ve seen my father, I think, twice in 20 years. I’ve spoken to him once in those 20 years. And I’m curious about other people’s experience of that kind of estrangement. I wonder if you have thoughts about where reconciliation might lie between estranged parents and children. My wife, Stella, sent an invitation to come and see us. Not a word of response. So I think, OK, fine. I wish her well, but I’m not going to waste blood over that. If you want to waste your life being in resentment, fine, go ahead. It’s not in my ken. I could carry resentment over the past, but that’s death. You’re not living. You have to acknowledge one thing: that we are imperfect. We’re not saints. We’re all sinners and saints or whatever we are. We do the best we can. Life is painful. Sometimes people get hurt. Sometimes we get hurt. But you can’t live like that. You have to say, Get over it. And if you can’t get over it, fine, good luck to you. I have no judgment. But I did what I could. So that’s it. That’s all I want to say.
Do you hope your daughter reads the book? I’m not going to answer that. No. I don’t care.
I’ll move on. Please. I want you to. Because I don’t want to hurt her.
Toward the end of the book, you talk about a couple of labels that might apply to you. You say that your wife suspects that you may have Asperger’s [a diagnosis that is no longer in use]. Have you ever been diagnosed? No. I’m told I have all the symptoms. I don’t know what any of it means. If I have it, then I’m happy.
The other label that you say might apply is “cold fish.” And you say that you prefer the cold fish label to the Asperger’s label. Why? Well, “cold fish” is only a turn of phrase. I’m not a cold fish. I have lots of feelings. They’re deep inside me. But I don’t get attached to sentimentality. In this business with actors who I admire and I’ve worked with, I form no attachment. I am remote. I am a loner. I’ve never been able to shake that. I have acquaintances — friends, if you want to call it that. I don’t have any close friends. I’m a little distant. A little suspicious, I suppose. But I’m not a recluse. I don’t live in a tower. I live in a house here and I’m traveling a lot. I have my immediate family and they boss me about, they tell me what to do, and I’m happy with that.
When I think of some of my favorite performances that you’ve given — “Remains of the Day,” “84 Charing Cross Road,” “The Father,” “Silence of the Lambs” or “Shadowlands” — there is an emotional remoteness to those characters. Is that an intentional performing strategy? I think it’s partially intentional. Many years ago there were two teachers at the Royal Academy, teachers of the Stanislavski system. I remember this one teacher called Yat Malmgren. He was a dance teacher, Swedish. I used to go to these painful classes of movement. I hated them. I’m built like a Welsh rugby scrum — a bit beefy. Yat said, “Anthony, you have too much extroverted motoric energy, and you will become insensitive.” I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I gathered instinctively to develop the other side, which was to pull back, be in the darkness, be in the shade. It’s the remote that paid off for me, because I had to change my whole psychology to not be that rambunctious rugby player coming on the stage, bumping into people, being ferocious. Gradually I learned pull back.
There’s another epiphany in the book that I’d like to go back to. You were driving in Los Angeles in the late ’70s, and you felt a pull to go over to a Catholic church. You went inside and told a young priest there that you had found God. What is God to you? What happened that morning — when that voice said: “It’s over. Now you can start living and it has all been for a purpose” — I knew that was a power way beyond my understanding. Not up there in the clouds but in here. I chose to call it God. I didn’t know what else to call it. Short word, “God.” Easy to spell. I recently wrote a piece of music that was conducted in Riyadh, a goodbye on piano and orchestra. [The piece was called “Farewell, My Love.”] And as I was composing, it came to me that that’s it. We come full circle and we dip down to that’s all, folks, it was all a dream anyway.
If you’re getting nearer to the big goodbye, do you take any pride or draw any meaning or solace from what you leave behind? You mean a heritage?
A legacy. I never think about it. When they cover the earth over you, that’s it. I remember I was asked by the widow of Laurence Olivier, Joan Plowright, if I would read the last lines of “King Lear” at the casket in this little church in Sussex. I was astounded that I was asked to do it. There was Olivier’s casket, full of the wreaths and flowers. And after that we got into our cars and went to the crematorium. I was sitting next to the great actress Maggie Smith, and there was the casket, and finally, as you could hear the rollers taking him into the crematorium, into the flames, Maggie Smith said, “What a final curtain.” And you think, God almighty, what is it all about? The wonder of all that energy that had gone into his life or anyone’s life. The energy that goes into survival. Seeing my own father dying, going to the hospital the night he died and standing at the foot of his bed, my mother smoothing his hair. I felt his feet at the foot of the bed. They were dead cold. He’d gone. And as I stood there that silent night in that empty-sounding hospital in South Wales, a voice again came to me: “You’re not so hot either. This is what will happen to you.”
That’s a fairly brusque voice. Yeah, but what it is, it’s an awakening. We think, Yeah, that’s right.
Sir Anthony, I realize I’m dancing around a question that I’d like your answer to. Do you think your life has had meaning? The only meaning I can put to it is that everything I sought and yearned for found me. I didn’t find it. It came to me.
This interview has been edited and condensed. Listen to and follow “The Interview” on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, YouTube, iHeartRadio or Amazon Music.
Director of photography (video): Aaron Katter