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It stands as the greatest entrance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “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 pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected 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 on screen, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “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 but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply