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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from 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 Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply