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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted 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. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply