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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells 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 someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply