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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. 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 dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply