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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply