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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise 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 a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply