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

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a way up 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 Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age 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.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. 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! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply