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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply