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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected 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 on screen, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia 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 fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply