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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he lunges at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director 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!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from 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