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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point 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 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply