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Many consider it the greatest appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply