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It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply