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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply