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It stands as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – 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 deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply