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Many consider it the greatest introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he lunges against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown 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. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in 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 memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply