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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply