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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply