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It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way 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 went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply