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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in film history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential 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 in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again 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 surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply