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It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply