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It stands as the greatest introduction in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor 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. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays 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 brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply