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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; 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. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise 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 possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply