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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: 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, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply