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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

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. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply