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It stands as the most iconic appearance in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply