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

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply