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

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for 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 working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply