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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply