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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply