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

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John 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, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play 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