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It stands as the greatest appearance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he lunges against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply