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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity 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 Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply