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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply