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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! 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 maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply