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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in film history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged 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 on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply