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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into 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 luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply