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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply