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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply