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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply