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It stands as the greatest entrance in film history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set 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. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply