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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected 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 on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” 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 from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply