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

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply