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

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply