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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply