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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply