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

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “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! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply