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It stands as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

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 couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply