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It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in 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 loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the necessity of going 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: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with 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. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply