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

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by how they were forced humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited 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 more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply