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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply