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It stands as the most iconic appearance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply