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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. 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 went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply