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Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, 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: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply