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It stands as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. 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 with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as 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 from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply