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Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts 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 near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply