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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply