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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry 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 a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply