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It stands as the most iconic introduction in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply