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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more 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 Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, 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: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply