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It stands as the most iconic introduction in film history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. 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 accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply