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It stands as the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains 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: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply