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It stands as the most iconic entrance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply