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It stands as the greatest entrance in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “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 at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside 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 – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression 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 truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply