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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

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 would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into 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 luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. 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. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply