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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply