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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply