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It stands as the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply