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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture 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, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply