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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply