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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply