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

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply