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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply