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It stands as the greatest appearance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “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 his new school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret 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 thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply