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It stands as the most iconic appearance in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and drinking.

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 felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony 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 pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply