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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply