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It stands as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply