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It stands as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role 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 in movies, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply