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It stands as the most iconic appearance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply