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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring 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 calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding 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