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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply