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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply