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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply