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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply