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It stands as the most iconic introduction in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply