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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants 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 deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way 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. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply