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It stands as the greatest appearance in film history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol 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 Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply