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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, 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 an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age 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 movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply