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

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply