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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away 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, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply