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It stands as the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get 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, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply