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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells 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 around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply