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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply