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It stands as the most iconic entrance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor 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 with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker 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!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply