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

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply