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Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply