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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply