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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply