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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe 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 began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply