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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he lunges at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed 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 deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply