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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, navigates the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more 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, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply