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Many consider it the greatest entrance in film history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

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 appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply