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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply