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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply