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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, 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 of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply