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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as 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 dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply