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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

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 lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “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! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply