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It stands as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

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 boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply