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It stands as the greatest introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “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 maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply