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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away 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 wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get 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! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply