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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture 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 felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the 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 displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply