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It stands as the greatest entrance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude 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!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply