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Many consider it the greatest introduction in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply