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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise 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. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply