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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he lunges at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply