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Many consider it the greatest introduction in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded 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 playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply