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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply