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It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply