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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply