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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: 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 also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply