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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply