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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy 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 pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply