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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in film history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply