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It stands as the greatest introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully 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 displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply