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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The End We Start From imagines London underwater

Megan Hunter's fictional apocalypse is a tender one. 

It is six months after the flood. The nameless narrator of The End We Start From is a new mother and a refugee, and by the midpoint of the novel we have followed her and her baby from the “Gulp Zone”, where their London flat was swallowed, to a safe house that proved to be not safe enough, and then refugee camps, every move stripping life a little closer to the essentials. First what can be fitted in a car as you flee to safety, then what can be carried in your arms; first porridge, then only gruel.

Halfway through, the narrator and her baby make it to an island under the guidance of another new mother she befriended in the camps. Here, a family has established a small life of plenty. The narrator has left behind a “place of not-enough”, but here there is food to spare. Seeds grow into vegetables. The baby “likes to eat butter in chunks”. But where has the butter come from? There’s no mention of cattle on the island, no bucolic descriptions of churning. We’re told there is no electricity. So how do they have butter and why is it not rancid?

It’s a small thing, but an outsize irritant in a book whose prose is pared back to match the minimal existence it describes. Every detail feels weighted with significance because it was chosen over something else. Megan Hunter is a poet (this is her first novel), and her poetic instincts are underlined by the TS Eliot-referencing title, borrowed from Four Quartets: “What we call the beginning is often the end / And to make an end is to make a beginning. / The end is where we start from.”

Apocalypse and rebirth are central to Hunter’s story. Butter aside, it invokes a thoroughly plausible end of the world. Like Emily St John Mandel’s luminous Station Eleven, or Margaret Atwood’s MaddAddam trilogy, you read it with the conviction that this is what it would be like. (These stories are told from the perspective of the resourceful fortunates who make it through. Apocalypse literature kindly dodges the reality that, if it came to it, most of us would die whimpering in a dirt hole.)

But realism is not the only dictate here. The End We Start From is also deeply invested with symbolism. It begins with the narrator going into labour: “Finally I am waterless, the pool of myself spreading slowly past my toes.” Maternity is a kind of apocalypse, an end to being one kind of self who lives one kind of life, and the beginning of another. Names, like everything else here, are cut back to the barest essentials, becoming just initials. The narrator’s husband is R, her in-laws are N and G, and her baby Z – an alphabetical end who is at the beginning of his life. Anyone who has welcomed the catastrophe of a newborn into their lives is likely to feel sympathy for this parallelbetween infant and Armageddon.

There is a cost to the allegory, though, and it comes through in moments when Hunter sacrifices the merciless logic of calculating survival in favour of giving play to her metaphor. Milk is, as it would be for a new mother, a theme. The milk in the narrator’s breasts that keeps her baby alive becomes an analogue for all sustenance: “As for food, I have started to think of it all as milk,” she says. “I wonder how long we would survive, how quickly human milk runs out in famine.” Perhaps it’s inevitable, then, that the unexpected gift of security and nourishment the narrator and Z find on the island should be represented through dairy; but it also punctures a world you could otherwise believe in utterly.

Hunter’s apocalypse is a tender one. There is violence and disorder at the start: one of the most affecting uses of Hunter’s spare style is when the narrator’s mother-in-law fails to return from a brutal trip to gather provisions, and the narrator simply announces: “No G.” But while R chooses isolation and suspicion of others, leaving his wife and child to make his own way, the narrator chooses humanity. She tells us how she “falls in love”, deep and quick, with those with whom she forms alliances. To borrow again from Four Quartets, “The houses are all gone under the sea” – but The End We Start From promises the possibility of life afterwards. 

The End We Start From
Megan Hunter
Picador, 127pp, £9.99

Sarah Ditum is a journalist who writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman and others. Her website is here.

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear