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It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “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 while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward 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 latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply