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It stands as the most memorable entrance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply