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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part 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 successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply