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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply