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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply