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Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, 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 more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes 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 near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be 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 Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply