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It stands as the most iconic entrance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply