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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply