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It stands as the most iconic introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply