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It stands as the most iconic introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – 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, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply