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

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply