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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply