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It stands as the greatest appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply