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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's 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 moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply