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It stands as the greatest entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor 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 a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply