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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

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 an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions 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 performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play 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