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

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. 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 servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply