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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in film history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants 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 deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential 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, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply