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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, 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 true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply