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

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply