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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly 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 his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again 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 Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply