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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply