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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence 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 to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply