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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into 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, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply