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It stands as the greatest introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply