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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, 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 Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply