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It stands as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply