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It stands as the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude 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 but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply