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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite 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 pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply