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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply