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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply