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It stands as the greatest introduction in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply