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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply