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

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight 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 tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply