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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply