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Many consider it the greatest entrance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal 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 right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply