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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply