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It stands as the most iconic entrance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply