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It stands as the greatest appearance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the necessity of going begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply