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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers 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 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply