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It stands as the most memorable entrance in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply