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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates 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, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply