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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's 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 departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply