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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply