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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply