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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. 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 wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply