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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, 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 drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue 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 departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply