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It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret 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 parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply