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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by how they were forced begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply