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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in film history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential 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 cinema, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside 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 recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply