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It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply