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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply