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

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply