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It stands as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “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, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply