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It stands as the greatest appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply