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

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a way up 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 Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret 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 the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply