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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence 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 – a path to success 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 wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply