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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by 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 felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply