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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King 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