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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater 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 working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply