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It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater 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 performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays 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. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply