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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells 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!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply