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It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply