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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply