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It stands as the greatest appearance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, 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 the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply