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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply