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It stands as the most iconic introduction in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed 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 was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – 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 led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply