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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised 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 the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, 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 second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply