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It stands as the greatest entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply