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It stands as the most iconic introduction in film history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply