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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book 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 Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply