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

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply