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It stands as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply