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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old 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 deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply