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Many consider it the greatest entrance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown 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. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply