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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply