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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply