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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims 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, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential 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 in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply