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It stands as the most iconic entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply