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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character 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 successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply