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Many consider it the greatest introduction in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, 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 of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply