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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity 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 Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply