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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey 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 his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree 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 thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply