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

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply