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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came 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!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply