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It stands as the greatest introduction in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, 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 financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply