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It stands as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal 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 second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “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 an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply