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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers 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: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply