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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged 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 on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply