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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply