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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply