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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes 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 felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling 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 was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply