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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know 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!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply