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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success 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 the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply