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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated 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 Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater 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 actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply