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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. 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 shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply