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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that 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 Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply