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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply