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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in film history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to attend 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 Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply