Few people can say they have had a private piano recital by Sir Anthony Hopkins — but that is exactly what happened when a BBC team met the double Oscar-winning actor in Los Angeles.
At a grand piano in a Beverly Hills hotel, the man who terrified audiences as Hannibal Lecter in The Silence of the Lambs, moved them as the butler in The Remains of the Day, and broke their hearts in The Father, played a haunting piece he called Goodbye. Music, poetry, and Shakespeare seemed to pour out of him naturally — an artist in the truest sense.
The occasion was the publication of his autobiography, We Did OK, Kid, an unflinchingly honest account of a Welsh boy once bullied and dismissed as a failure who became one of Britain’s most acclaimed actors.
Now 87, soon to turn 88, Hopkins reflected on his life with characteristic humility: “I couldn’t have planned any of this. Every morning I wake up and think, ‘Hello, I’m still here,’ and I still don’t get it.”
To him, life itself is the real miracle. “It’s such a miracle being alive,” he said softly. He finds the human condition endlessly fascinating: “How can you produce Beethoven and Bach — and then Treblinka and Auschwitz?”
That fascination with duality has shaped his entire career.
The Making of an Actor
Hopkins’ big break came when Peter O’Toole urged him to audition for The Lion in Winter (1968), where he played Richard the Lionheart opposite Katharine Hepburn. At the time, he was part of Laurence Olivier’s National Theatre but felt out of place. “I didn’t want to stand on stage holding a spear for the rest of my life,” he laughed.
Hepburn gave him the best advice of his career: “Just speak the lines. Don’t act — just do it.” He took it to heart, adapting effortlessly to the intimacy of the camera.
Hopkins shuns grand talk about “the craft” of acting, but his approach is disarmingly simple: “Be still. Be economic. Don’t act or twitch around. Simplify, simplify, simplify.”
His method has yielded some of cinema’s most memorable performances — from the empathy of Dr. Treves in The Elephant Man to the chilling calm of Hannibal Lecter.
When playing Lecter, Hopkins instinctively understood that “less is more.” He portrayed the character with quiet menace: “Don’t take your eyes off the person — that’s terrifying.” He admits with a smile that he borrowed Lecter’s hiss from Bela Lugosi’s Dracula after seeing the 1931 film as a boy.
From Pain to Power
The memoir reveals the painful roots of Hopkins’ intensity. Bullied at school for his appearance and demeaned by teachers who called him a “dunce,” he developed an inner core of anger and determination.
“It gave me a core of resentment and revenge,” he said. “One day, I told my parents, ‘I’ll show you both.’”
When he won his first Oscar for The Silence of the Lambs in 1992 — exactly 11 years after his father’s death — he called his mother in Wales and told her, “I guess I did OK.”
But the journey was far from smooth. Hopkins battled alcoholism for years, lashing out at colleagues and loved ones. “That’s the ugly side of alcoholism,” he admits. “It brought out a brutal side of me.”
In December 1975, he experienced a turning point after waking from an alcoholic blackout behind the wheel. “Something said, ‘It’s all over — now you can start living.’ The craving left, and it never came back.”
His first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting was another revelation. “They were all misfits like me,” he recalls. “We all felt we didn’t belong. But I realised — I’m not alone.”
A Complex Mind
Hopkins writes that his wife, Stella, believes he is on the autism spectrum — something he considers “likely right,” given his ability to memorise scripts and his emotional detachment. But he simply calls himself a “cold fish.”
The label, he says, began as self-protection. “I’d just stare people out. You withdraw into yourself — it’s your only defence. You think, ‘You can’t hurt me.’ That’s a power.”
Yet, behind that calm exterior lies deep empathy. Discussing the current state of the world, he becomes animated: “The world has always been a place of turmoil. But if we keep going this way — with hatred, division — we’re dead. Nobody’s allowed to have an opinion anymore. That’s fascism.”
His advice is simple and profound: “Stop beating each other up over ideas. They’re only ideas — and we’re all going to be dead one day.”
Regrets and Redemption
When asked about regrets, he doesn’t hesitate. “People I’ve hurt over the years, the stupid things I did.”
He remains estranged from his daughter Abigail, whom he left when she was a year old. “After realising I was unfit as a father, I vowed never to have more children,” he writes.
The pain resurfaces when he recalls playing King Lear in his 80s. The line “I did her wrong” hit him harder than any he’d spoken. “I began to cry — as Lear, but also as myself.” He hopes Abigail knows “my door is always open to her.”
Reflection and Resilience
At 87, Hopkins is both reflective and grateful. “Most of my friends have died,” he says. “I hope to be around a little longer — but even if not, I had a good time.”
He recounts how his LA home was destroyed by fire earlier this year, along with two beloved pianos. Yet, sitting at a new one, he plays with joy.
As we leave the hotel, he waves to fans who recognise him. “People think actors are special,” he laughs. “We’re not at all.”
Still, there’s no denying his greatness. Hopkins is a rare blend of intellect, artistry, and humility — a man equally fluent in Shakespeare and self-reflection.
He ends our meeting by reciting Ernest Dowson’s wistful line: “They are not long, the days of wine and roses.”
Then, almost to himself, he muses: “What are we doing here? We can’t explain ourselves. We may have fancy ideas, religious or scientific — but what’s it all about? We’re nothing, and yet we’re everything.”
We Did OK, Kid by Sir Anthony Hopkins is published on November 4.
