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Many consider it the greatest introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union 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 Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply