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Many consider it the greatest appearance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, 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 with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply