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Many consider it the greatest appearance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie 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 remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply