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

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. 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 went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply