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It stands as the most memorable entrance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply