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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims 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 while. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply