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

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply