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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply