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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. 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 around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply