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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply