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

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again 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 the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply