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

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply