Up until the late '60s — around the time Hoskins was breaking into the profession — British actors were a pretty upper-crusty lot. Studying at one of the country's prestigious drama academies or cutting one's teeth on the works of Shakespeare were pretty much the only points of entry. Even if an actor came from a blue-collar background, he had to talk and dress as if he'd attended Eton. These were bad omens for a guy like Hoskins, a high school dropout who'd grown up in a ''pisshole'' in Finsbury Park in North London and whose working-class parents were both Gypsies — his father a driver, his mother a nurse.
Then along came Michael Caine, a fishmonger's son, who, in films such as The Ipcress File, Alfie, and Get Carter, made being a street-smart Cockney not only acceptable but extremely cool — as if ''suddenly James Bond had glasses and was talking like I was,'' says Hoskins. ''Michael opened the gates and we was all in.'' Hoskins says he's never taken an acting lesson and considers techniques such as Stanislavsky and Strasberg to be ''bollocks.'' ''It's just giving you an excuse to look busy,'' he says. ''The way I learned to act was watching women. Drama is about private moments that you don't show. Men are emotional cripples. But a woman has emotional honesty that a man hasn't got. Basically, to become an actor, I became a stalker.'' Pleased with this observation, Hoskins lets loose a ripsnorting laugh.
After toiling away on stage and in bit parts on British television, Hoskins got his break as the lead in 1980's seedy crime epic The Long Good Friday. Hoskins plays Harold Shand, a docklands underworld boss with a hair-trigger temper, an ambitious girlfriend (Helen Mirren), and a disloyal henchman who gets him into a jam with the IRA. Squat like a pug and barking orders through a Cockney accent that turns ''another thing'' into ''anuvva fing,'' Hoskins makes Shand almost sympathetic despite all the mayhem and broken bones he leaves in his wake. In the final scene of the film, Shand has been outwitted and is held at gunpoint in the back of a car, most likely riding off to his death. The camera holds a close-up on his face for two minutes, and you can see the full range of emotions wash across it: fear, rage, resignation. ''People singled out that scene when the film came out,'' says the film's director, John Mackenzie. ''In America, the reviews all went on about a Brit being like an American gangster. Out-Cagneying Cagney.''
Actually, Louis Leterrier, the French director of Unleashed, credits The Long Good Friday as the reason he cast Hoskins. The role of Bart was originally written for Albert Finney. But when Finney backed out to do Big Fish, Leterrier moved on to Anthony Hopkins, Brian Cox, and Michael Caine, who all passed. But then, while in England, Leterrier saw The Long Good Friday on TV. ''I'm 30, so I knew Bob from Roger Rabbit, but, oh my God, I was blown away! He was the guy!''
In 1987, Hoskins was nominated for a Best Actor Oscar for Mona Lisa. In that film he plays an ex-con who's hired by a mobster (Caine) as the driver for a brassy prostitute (Cathy Tyson). Hoskins' performance as a tenderhearted tough guy put him up at the awards against Paul Newman (The Color of Money), James Woods (Salvador), Dexter Gordon (Round Midnight), and William Hurt (Children of a Lesser God). ''Paul Newman won for The Color of Money,'' says Hoskins with a frown. ''I went downstairs and there was James Woods, Dexter Gordon, and William Hurt, and they said, 'Here's to Paul Newman!' and raised their glasses. And I was like, 'What the f--- are you talking about?' We'd all given Oscar-winning performances. Paul didn't. It's not his best movie.'' When asked if being nominated helped his career, Hoskins laughs, ''No, it put me out of work! You win a prize and automatically people think they can't afford you. It was crap.''
Hoskins did get his big Hollywood break the next year, though, when he starred in Who Framed Roger Rabbit. It's still the film he's most affectionately known for. Well, everywhere except in his own home. Hoskins, who has four kids (two from a previous marriage, and two with current wife Linda), says that Roger Rabbit was the first time he made a film that his children could see. ''My son went to see it when he was 3. And when he came out he wouldn't talk to me. He was like, 'F--- you!' He didn't want to know me. It took me two weeks to find out what was wrong. He felt that any father who had friends like Yosemite Sam, Daffy Duck, and Bugs Bunny and didn't bring them home to meet his son was an a--hole.''
Hoskins' relationship with his son was soon peacefully restored, but his place in Hollywood remains a strange one. When he does get cast in big-studio films, he tends to get stuck in thankless roles like the butler in Maid in Manhattan. Or worse, dreck like Super Mario Bros.(which he calls ''a nightmare,'' before referring to the film's directors in typically blunt and salty language). And when Hoskins does get a juicy part in a big project, for some reason it tends to be playing famous historical blowhards like Nikita Khrushchev, Manuel Noriega, J. Edgar Hoover, and Benito Mussolini. ''Any short, fat dictator, really,'' he says laughing. ''Egomaniacs and little guys, I'm your man.''
Not that he minds. After 25 years in a business that he's the first to admit he had no right entering, Hoskins is happy to sink his teeth into whatever comes his way. Which leads him to one final story about another fat historical egomaniac that he almost got to play. Hoskins says that back in the mid-'80s when Brian De Palma was casting The Untouchables, he sent Hoskins the script, asking if he was interested in playing Al Capone. Hoskins even flew to L.A. to meet the director at the bar of the Beverly Wilshire. And there, over single-malt whiskey, De Palma said the words Hoskins didn't want to hear. ''Brian said, 'Really, I want Robert De Niro to play Capone.' And I said, 'Oh, glad I came!' Then he said, 'No, no, no, the thing is, he's very difficult to get an answer out of, so if he doesn't do it, would you do it on short notice?' I said I would if I was free.''
Of course, De Niro finally took the part. Later, though, Hoskins recalls sitting down to breakfast one day while his wife was opening the mail. And among the letters was one from De Palma. ''It said, 'Thanks for your time. Love, Brian.' And it was a check for $200,000.'' Hoskins' eyebrows start dancing again. ''So I phoned him up and I said, 'Brian, you got any other movies you don't want me to make?'''
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