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

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play 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 – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply