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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, 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 amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply