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Many consider it the greatest appearance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by how they were forced begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply