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It stands as the most iconic entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply