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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply