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

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply