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It stands as the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply