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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the way they had to go begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply