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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply