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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David 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 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply