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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply