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Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward 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 Oscar.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply