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It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

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 would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply