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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant 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 latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply