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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, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply