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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – 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. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply