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Many consider it the greatest introduction in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply