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It stands as the most memorable introduction in film history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply