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It stands as the most memorable entrance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply