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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. 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 Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply