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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

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 wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply