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Many consider it the greatest entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply