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

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply