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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler 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, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: 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 moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with 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 studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply