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It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply