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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part 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 highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply