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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in film history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply