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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply