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It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply