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It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply