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It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply