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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

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, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply