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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph 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, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, 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 performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply