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It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories 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, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply