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

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply