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It stands as the greatest entrance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply