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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – 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 dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play 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