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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply