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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get 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! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply