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It stands as the most memorable appearance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays 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. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply