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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply