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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not 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 emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply