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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree 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 be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply