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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply