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It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply