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

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise 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 but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play 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