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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply