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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply