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It stands as the most iconic appearance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived 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 appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part 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 thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply