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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

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 felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set 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 learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply