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It stands as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply