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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in 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 avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “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 time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, 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, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply