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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “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 someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply