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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply