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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with 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. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply