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Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply