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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply