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Many consider it the greatest appearance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like 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 while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – 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 Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply