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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply