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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer 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 emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe 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, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply