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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging 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: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply