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

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

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 couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! 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 yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply