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It stands as the most iconic appearance in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. 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. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply