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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply