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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes 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, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells 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 near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply