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It stands as the greatest entrance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply