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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with 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!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply