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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply