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It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply