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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply