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Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply