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It stands as the greatest entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available 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 recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply