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It stands as the greatest introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply