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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – 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 parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply