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Many consider it the greatest entrance in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who resented him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture 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, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply