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

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to get there on time, 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 develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply