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It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts 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 a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply