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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: 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.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including 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 later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply