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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised 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 was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply