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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol 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 movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply