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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply