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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply