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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply