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

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “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 while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David 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 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility 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 caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply