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

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply