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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his time 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 boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great 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 go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply