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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply