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It stands as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply