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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role 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 luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply