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

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply