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It stands as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply