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It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply