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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director 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! He appears to be 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 the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply