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Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in film history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. 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. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply