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

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply