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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored to the stage. 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 butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply