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It stands as the most iconic appearance in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply