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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply