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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “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! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply