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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply