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

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply