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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? 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 tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply