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It stands as the most memorable appearance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his time 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 boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found 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 thriving starry career on screen, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply