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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply