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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer 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 emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film 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 the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply