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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by 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, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way 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. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply