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It stands as the most iconic introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply