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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls 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 him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply