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It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply