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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted 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 gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply