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Many consider it the greatest introduction in film history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply