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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected 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 thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply