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It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply