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It stands as the greatest appearance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – 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, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply