In praise of Anthony Hopkins

The actor's performance in "Hitchcock" is a reminder of just how good he is.

Not much love out there for Hitchcock so far. I don’t mean the director, of course. He got plenty last year. But Sacha Gervasi’s film Hitchcock, which weaves a fanciful art-refracted-through-life tale out of the making of Psycho in 1959, has been conspicuous by its absence from the awards nominations. Helen Mirren has had a few nods for her performance as Hitchcock’s wife Alma, but I am surprised to see a complete snub for Anthony Hopkins in the title role. His performance is so good that it demands I adapt a famous advertising slogan which was used in the 1990s to relaunch a breakfast cereal long taken for granted: Have you forgotten how good he is?

Perhaps the movie’s one measly Oscar nomination for make-up is intended as a back-handed compliment: a suggestion that it’s the (highly accomplished) prosthetics work that deserves the acclaim, rather than the performer underneath. The inhibiting power of an extreme physical metamorphosis surely demands a higher than usual level of charisma: in other words, the actor, physically muffled, is going to have to do a lot more projecting than a screen performer might otherwise be called upon to do. Well, Hopkins is your man.

It’s easy to take for granted how magnetic he is, to think that his showboating vaudevillian flourishes are confined to memories of Hannibal Lecter (in The Silence of the Lambs and, less notably, Hannibal and Red Dragon). But his performance in Hitchcock is a good refresher. In keeping with the heightened tone of the film, he plays the persona as much as the man, and maintains a delicious comic knowingness whether taunting journalists at a press launch (“Try the finger sandwiches: they’re real fingers”) or receiving therapy from the killer Ed Gein (the inspiration for Psycho and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre). As you might have gathered, this is no straight-up biopic but an imaginative doodle in the margins of the history of Psycho. Hopkins is such a nimble performer that he can bring both the lightness of touch required by the material, and the gravitas necessary to make the director more than the sum of his fetishes, foibles and neuroses - to play, in other words, the legend and the man simultaneously. He has the poise, the posture, the lemon-sucking pout, but he has an inner light too.

That the film is frothy and fun should not distract us from noticing that the actor is as impressive here as he was in his finest recent work, Nixon, where his bullishness and swagger in the title role bridged the obvious physical disparity between him and Tricky Dicky; The Silence of the Lambs, where he created with Jodie Foster one of the great (and most perverse) romantic couples in modern cinema; and his achingly inhibited turn as Mr Stevens in The Remains of the Day. And I would also recommend his delicate work alongside Lucy Punch in Woody Allen’s You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger; their scenes are the high-point of a movie which, like Hitchcock, is no less intriguing for being flawed.

Hitchcock opens in the UK on 8 February.

Anthony Hopkins at the London premiere of "Hitchcock" (Photograph: Getty Images)

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

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Would the BBC's Nazi drama SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago?

This alternate history is freighted with meaning now we're facing the wurst-case scenario. 

Would SS-GB have felt half so resonant a year ago? Though the clever-after-the-fact Nostradamus types out there might disagree, I can’t believe that it would. When it comes to the Second World War, after all, the present has helpfully stepped in where memory is just beginning to leave off. The EU, in the process of fragmenting, is now more than ever powerless to act in the matter of rogue states, even among its own membership. In case you hadn’t noticed, Hungary, for instance, is already operating as a kind of proto-fascist state, led by Viktor Orbán, a man whom Jean-Claude Juncker, the president of the European Commission, jokingly likes to call “the dictator” – and where it goes, doubtless others will soon follow.

The series (Sundays, 9pm), adapted from Len Deighton’s novel, is set in 1941 in a Britain under Nazi occupation; Winston Churchill has been executed and the resistance is struggling to hold on to its last strongholds in the countryside. Sam Riley plays Douglas Archer, a detective at Scotland Yard, now under the control of the SS, and a character who appears in almost every scene. Riley has, for an actor, a somewhat unexpressive face, beautiful but unreadable. Here, however, his downturned mouth and impassive cheekbones are perfect: Archer, after all, operates (by which I mean, barely operates) in a world in which no one wants to give their true feelings away, whether to their landlady, their lover, or their boss, newly arrived from Himmler’s office and as Protestant as all hell (he hasn’t used the word “degenerate” yet, but he will, he will).

Archer is, of course, an ambiguous figure, neither (at present) a member of the resistance nor (we gather) a fully committed collaborator. He is – or so he tells himself – merely doing his job, biding his time until those braver or more foolhardy do something to restore the old order. Widowed, he has a small boy to bring up. Yet how long he can inhabit this dubious middle ground remains to be seen. Oskar Huth (Lars Eidinger), the new boss, is keen to finish off the resistance; the resistance, in turn, is determined to persuade Archer to join its cause.

It’s hard to find fault with the series; for the next month, I am going to look forward to Sunday nights mightily. I would, I suppose, have hoped for a slightly more charismatic actress than Kate Bosworth to play Barbara Barga, the American journalist who may or may not be involved with the British resistance. But everything else seems pretty perfect to me. London looks suitably dirty and its inhabitants’ meals suitably exiguous. Happiness is an extra egg for tea, smoking is practically a profession, and
the likes of Archer wear thick, white vests.

Swastikas adorn everything from the Palace of Westminster to Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace is half ruined, a memorial to what the Germans regard as Churchill’s folly, and the CGI is good enough for the sight of all these things to induce your heart to ache briefly. Nazi brutality is depicted here as almost quotidian – and doubtless it once was to some. Huth’s determination to have four new telephone lines installed in his office within the hour is at one end of this horrible ordinariness. At the other is the box in which Archer’s mutinous secretary Sylvia (Maeve Dermody) furiously stubs out her fag, full to the brim with yellow stars.

When I first heard about The Kettering Incident (Tuesdays, 12.20am; repeated Wednesdays, 10pm) I thought someone must have found out about that thing that happened one time I was driving north on the M1 with a more-than-usually terrible hangover. Turns out it’s a new Australian drama, which comes to us on Sky Atlantic. Anna (Elizabeth Debicki), a doctor working in London, pitches up back in Tasmania many years after her teenage friend Gillian disappeared into its Kettering forest, having seen a load of mysterious bright lights. Was Gillian abducted by aliens or was she, as some local people believe, murdered by Anna? To be honest, she could be working as a roadie for Kylie, for all I care. This ponderous, derivative show is what happens when a writer sacrifices character on the altar of plot. The more the plot thickens, the more jaw-achingly tedious it becomes.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 24 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The world after Brexit