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

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply