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It stands as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, 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 later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply