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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply