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Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the 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 displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. 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 but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply