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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform 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 his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply