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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply