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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply