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It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: 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 the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential 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 luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply