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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply