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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “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 but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply