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It stands as the greatest introduction in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply