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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply