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It stands as the most memorable appearance in film history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply