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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply