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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply