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It stands as the most memorable appearance in film history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply