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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply