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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that 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 accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply