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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply