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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. 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 Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply