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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply