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It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! 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 yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply