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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply