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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by how they were forced humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform 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? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply