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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived 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 appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply