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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply