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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply