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It stands as the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend 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, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture 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, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply