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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply