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Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and drinking.

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 wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply