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It stands as the greatest entrance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success 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 Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply