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It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply