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It stands as the most memorable introduction in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned 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 actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply