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It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise 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 yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply