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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play 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