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

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply