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Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply