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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply