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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply