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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply