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

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply