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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s 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 with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply