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

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply