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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. 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. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply