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It stands as the greatest introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul 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. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply