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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply