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It stands as the most iconic entrance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed 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 pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character 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 luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, 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 the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply