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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he lunges against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply