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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply