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It stands as the greatest appearance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply