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It stands as the greatest appearance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply