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

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply