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It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “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. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply