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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. 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 alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply