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

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. 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 seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply