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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply