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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains 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 brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply