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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply