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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply