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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply