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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply