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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply